


Touch Me

by subjxctsixteen (orphan_account)



Category: Law & Order: SVU
Genre: Abuse of Power, F/M, Manipulation, Underage Sex, basically elliot likes young girls and fucks his neighbor, because i'm a freak with daddy issues, dubcon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-11
Updated: 2017-06-11
Packaged: 2018-11-12 15:46:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11165034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/subjxctsixteen
Summary: Elliot Stabler hunts pedophiles. He's nothing like them.





	Touch Me

Elliot’s got it bad.  
Bad in the sense that there’s this thing that’s marked his life for the past few months and in simple terms, the problem is that he’s a fucking creep. In non-simple terms, he’s got a predilection for brunettes, for girls with nice smiles who are soft and small and need protection and this time he ends up wanting his sixteen year old neighbor.  
Elliot turns forty in three months.  
It doesn’t seem to matter.  
When he kisses her she’s over his apartment because her parents are fighting and she needs a quiet place to do homework. It’s after a case so he’s drinking-- not a lot, but enough-- because that particular day was hard and he’s got no self control and he’s halfheartedly trying to remedy a constant feeling of emptiness through a string of increasingly bad decisions. Another fucking pedophile bust-- and fuck, all he can do is sit there and wonder who could hurt a fucking kid like that.  
He couldn’t.  
Elliot glances over at her and drums his fingers slowly against the countertop.  
The quietness is stifling.  
She asks him for help with a calculus problem-- smart girl like her, he figures she doesn’t really need it but wants to talk to him about something just to break the silence-- and he laughs it off, says something about being shit at math in high school.  
He sits down next to her on the couch anyway. Works through the problem. Doesn’t move away even after she’s finished it, feels that familiar warm sensation flaring to life in his stomach. His hands are clammy. His pulse is loud. 

The TV is on, playing some dumbass sports talk show, and Elliot lets his eyes shift to the screen, not really paying attention or registering any of it. A lone beam of sunlight filters in from the half-closed blinds in the corner of the room, catching dust particles in the air. and illuminating most of her face. The moment feels surreal. It’s like sound of her pencil scratching against paper and the droning of the TV are the only things anchoring him to reality.   
He’s drunk, he realizes, glancing over and feeling his gaze almost inescapably drawn to the way she bites her bottom lip as she figures out a problem. Elliot breathes out, exhale soft and shaky, and swallows past a lump in his throat.  
Casually, carefully, he moves his arm up and drapes it across the back of the couch behind where she’s sitting.  
He stares at her like he’s waiting for her to sense danger and flee.  
(He could never hurt her. He’s not like that.)  
She doesn’t notice-- she furrows her brow and taps the pencil against the paper and scribbles down something illegible but says nothing.  
Elliot finally releases his breath. Bites back a groan. Wonders, not for the first time, what the fuck he’s doing.  
The pretty girl next to him finishes the problem and promptly flips over the page. The other side is blank and she lets out a victorious little hum as she shuffles together the papers she has and shoves them into a slightly torn purple folder.  
“Done,” she announces.  
“That’s-- Good,” Elliot says, painfully aware of the low, rumbling rasp in his voice that hadn’t been there before.  
She picks up her bag and shifts her weight forwards like she’s about to stand up, movements reluctant enough at the prospect of going back to the chaos at home that Elliot practically fucking jumps at the opportunity.   
“You can stay, y'know,” he says, hurrying to add, “Unless you don’t want to.”  
She glances at him and raises her eyebrows and the look she gives him-- fuck, her smile, shy and small, just makes everything fucking worth it.   
He thinks about the case from today as she mumbles a thank-you and turns her attention to the television screen. Thinks about how bad the kid had been hurt. Thinks he’d never do that, especially not to her. He might be stupid, but he’d never hurt her. He’s not violent. She can trust him.   
The girl-- yeah, girl, because as much as Elliot wants her to be, she’s not a woman yet--shifts on the couch, just slightly, but enough that she brushes against his knee, and he feels like he’s been electrocuted.  
Elliot moves his leg, just a fraction of an inch, pressing more firmly against her thigh and solidifying the contact, and he exhales like he’s forgotten how to breathe properly. He hasn’t looked away from the muted colors of the TV, hasn’t stopped thinking of the case today, the terrible details of it branded in the back of his mind.   
She leans back against the couch cushions and the inside of Elliot’s arm is immediately pressed against the small, slender blades of her shoulders. He can see her glancing at him out of the corner of his eye but he doesn’t respond or acknowledge it at all, half afraid that if he does he’ll spiral uncontrollably into whatever is happening to him and to his fragile hold on his self control, half terrified that she’ll leave if she sees what she’s done to him.  
“Are you all right?” She asks, honestly concerned, burrowing her teeth into her soft, rosy bottom lip.  
“Yeah, yeah,” he answers, voice hoarse. “Tough case today. Some teacher messing with a student.”  
Elliot’s eyes are glued to the TV, not really seeing anything, flashes of color blurring out of focus until the screen is just one messy, undefined block of brightness in his vision.  
“It must be hard being a police officer.” There’s admiration in her voice, pure and innocent, and it makes his chest ache.  
“Yeah,” he mumbles. “The stuff people do, you know?” He licks his lips. “We’ve got signs all over schools about stranger danger but--how d’you warn them about people they’re supposed to trust? Their priests, scout leaders, teachers, therapists...”  
He’s not like that, though, he thinks, a little more vehemently than necessary. It’s not a pattern, not a preference, it’s just her.  
He’d never hurt her.  
His arm comes down over her shoulders fully, fingers brushing over the exposed skin where the sleeve of her t-shirt ends. Her breath catches and Elliot has to force himself not to withdraw his arm, aware that any sort of doubt in his actions would only make it seem worse. He’s still staring straight ahead.  
She leans into him with a sigh. It’s innocent, he knows, but it doesn’t feel like it.  
“There are a lot of bad guys in the world,” elliot mumbles. He curls his fingers, palm flat against the curve of her shoulder, movements slow and deliberate until he’s got his arm wrapped around her fully.  
He wants to look at her. He already knows she’s looking at him.   
“I’d never hurt you, you know that, right?” He hears himself ask, all gravelly and low.  
“Yeah,” she says, plainly, as if it’s a dumb question.  
They stay like that for a while, just sitting there. For too long. The tension mounts and Elliot becomes increasingly aware of the warmth of the small body next to him. She shifts and her skirt slips up her thigh a fraction of an inch, exposing soft white skin, and Elliot feels his body stiffen, his breath catch, his body react in ways he knew it eventually would.  
She scoots closer to him on the couch.   
He swallows.  
She’s so close to him and he can practically feel her body heat, wants to reach out and touch more of her, knows her skin will be soft and unmarked and young and wants to feel it.  
She looks like his little angel, all pretty in the quickly dimming light filtering in from the curtains, face illuminated in shades of bright yellow and orange-- and he wants to protect her, to make sure no man can ever take anything from her, not ever.  
He can ensure that, he thinks, in the half-drunk fog of his mind.  
He’d be good for her. He’d be good to her, better than any asshole kid could ever be.  
Fuck.  
Elliot glances at her.  
He shuts off the TV with a soft click of the remote. the silence descends immediately, his pulse thundering loud in his ears in the absence of any other noise. She shifts, glances up at him,   
he moves, slowly, deliberately, until his hand is on her knee and his fingers are spreading over her skin. She doesn’t tense under his touch like he’d half expected her to-- he’s looking at her, and her expression is confused, uncertain, but not afraid.  
Her eyes are wide and bright and her expression is open, plainly readable, but Elliot-- he can’t look away from her mouth.  
“Mr. Stabler?” She whispers, questioningly, but he doesn’t or can’t respond.  
He’s leaning in. She doesn’t move away.   
The kiss is messy. It’s messy and it’s slow and it’s almost cruelly sexual, his tongue is parting her lips and pushing in and the press of his mouth to her smaller one is filthy in the sense that it makes his already-hard cock ache and swell and want, and then his hand is moving from her knee to the small, delicate curve of her waist and he’s digging his fingers in and holding her there as his tongue curls over her teeth--  
She doesn’t push him away or kiss him back or even really react at all but Elliot is drunk and he’s desperate and he doesn’t care. It doesn’t matter. He can hear the wet sounds of their mouths meeting and parting and meeting again and he can feel her pulse fluttering fast when his hand skims over the flat of her wrist and intertwines his fingers with her slender, smaller ones, hears the rustle of her body against the couch cushions as he urges her to lie flat on her back. She looks up at him half-dazed, eyes cloudy and cheeks flushed and mouth half-open like she’s wondering why he stopped kissing her or maybe why he even did it in the first place. There’s nothing in her expression that says keep going. There’s also nothing in her expression that says stop.  
Elliot pushes her legs apart and takes the space between them, careful not to crush her beneath his much heavier body weight. He keeps kissing her, licks into her mouth and tastes strawberries and chapstick and the sweetness of inexperience, of vulnerability, of something he can take and keep all to himself.   
His hand moves up under her shirt, calloused aland huge in comparison, thumbing over her nipple through the fabric of her bra and making a sound of satisfaction as she jolts beneath him at the unfamiliar sensation. It takes a bit of maneuvering to get her shirt off, and when he does he immediately discards it along with her bra, moves his mouth down over her breast and sucking a bruise into the milk-white skin there before taking her nipple into his mouth. He looks up at her and he flicks over it with his tongue and her eyes screw shut as she squirms underneath him. It’s new, all of it, and she has no idea how to react, whether she should be stopping him or giving in, and if Elliot was sober and if Elliot was stronger and if Elliot was better he’d make the right decision for her.  
He’s none of those things. He’s drunk and he’s horny and he’s tired of waiting.  
In one easy movement, he yanks her shorts and underwear down to her ankles and pulls them off. She stares up at him still with that half-in-shock expression as he fumbles with his belt, metal buckle clinking as he unhooks it and pulls it off.  
Elliot unbuttons his jeans. Unzips them. Shoves his pants and his boxer shorts down to his knees and barely registers her fascinated stare at his admittedly large cock before he leans back over her and tangles his fingers in her hair and drags her into another filthy kiss.  
It takes a second for him to align himself, because she doesn’t know how to, just lies there pliant on the sofa cushions. His breathing is ragged. His heart is thundering. The muscles in his arms and his back are tight, taut, with anticipation.  
He pushes in past the resistance until he’s halfway in.  
She chokes out something that could either be a moan or a sob and Elliot screws his eyes shut as one of his arms supporting his weight almost gives out-- she’s so fucking tight, fuck, so warm, he’s not going to be able to last--  
“It hurts,” she says, and Elliot barely manages to comprehend what she’s saying, but he somehow does, and in between shaky strokes of her hair with one hand he mumbles, “It’ll feel good in a minute, promise,” and then he starts to move-- shallow, small thrusts at first, getting her used to it, making her wet-  
She shifts, just a little, and the angle changes and Elliot’s hips snap forwards before he can help himself and fuck, he buries his cock in her down to the hilt.  
“Fuck. Fuck, sorry,” he grunts, struggling to hold himself still-- to hold himself back.  
And she just-- pauses, and then looks at him, and then digs her nails into his arms and says “Mr. Stabler,” in the most needy, affection-deprived whisper he’s ever fucking heard and he doesn’t-- he can’t say no, he can’t--  
“Hey,” he whispers, “Hey, hey-- it’s okay, baby girl, I’m right here. Daddy’s right here. Gonna take good care of you, baby. I promise.”   
She looks up at him with her soft eyes and he strokes her hair and her cheek and presses a little chaste kiss to her pouting mouth. And then he moves again and this time she moves with him, arching up against his body with a half-desperate half-uncertain whine, and the angle changes and his cock is even deeper inside of her and she’s rocking up with the rhythm of his thrusts and clutching his shoulders and she’s crying for him, fuck, he asks her if it’s good and she sobs out yes, Daddy, and something about the word makes him shudder and groan and tangle his fingers in her hair as he buries his cock inside his baby girl. He makes her fucking moan for him, takes and takes and takes until he knows that she’ll never forget this no matter what.  
“Daddy,” she whispers, clutching him close, “Oh-- I feel--”  
“Feel what,” he grunts out, still moving, fingers digging little indents into her hip as he fucks her, “you gonna come? want you to come. Come for daddy, baby.”  
She whimpers at that, buries her face in the curve of his neck and he can feel the wetness from her tears, can feel her trembling against him, can hear the creak of the couch and the raggedness of his breathing as he fucks her and fucks her and fucks her--  
“Daddy,” she says, soft and almost plaintive, and then she comes, and she tightens, hot and wet around his cock, and Elliot gives one, two, three more thrusts before his orgasm is ripped from him so fucking violently it feels like a goddamn revelation.

\--------

He volunteers to go undercover as a pedophile a few months later.  
Even though he’s nothing like them.  
Nothing.


End file.
